The book of British ballads . Teiths resounding shore, The boldest Lowland warriors fell,As down from Lennys pass you bore. But oer his hills, in festal day, How blazed Lord Ronalds beltane-tree,While youths and maids the light strathspey So nimbly danced with Highland glee ! Cheerd by the strength of Ronalds shell,Een age forgot his tresses hoar ; But now the loud lament we swell,0 neer to see Lord Ronald more! From distant isles a chieftain came,The joys of Ronalds halls to find, And chase with him the dark-brown game,That bounds oer Albins hills of wind. Twas Moy ; whom in Columbas isleThe
The book of British ballads . Teiths resounding shore, The boldest Lowland warriors fell,As down from Lennys pass you bore. But oer his hills, in festal day, How blazed Lord Ronalds beltane-tree,While youths and maids the light strathspey So nimbly danced with Highland glee ! Cheerd by the strength of Ronalds shell,Een age forgot his tresses hoar ; But now the loud lament we swell,0 neer to see Lord Ronald more! From distant isles a chieftain came,The joys of Ronalds halls to find, And chase with him the dark-brown game,That bounds oer Albins hills of wind. Twas Moy ; whom in Columbas isleThe seers prophetic spirit found, As, with a minstrels fire the while, He waked his harps harmonious sound. Full many a spell to him was known, Which wandering spirits shrink to hear ; And many a lay of potent tone,Was never meant for mortal ear. For there, tis said, in mystic mood,High converse with the dead they hold, And oft espy the fated shroud, That shall the future corpse enfold. H. J. Townsend del. G. P. Nicholls so. 244. 0 so it fell, that on a day, To rouse the red deer from their den,The Chiefs have taen their distant way, And scourd the deep Grlenfinlas glen. No vassals wait their sports to aid, To watch their safety, deck their board; Their simple dress, the Highland plaid,Their trusty guard, the Highland sword. Three summer days, through brake and dell,Their whistling shafts successful flew ; And still, when dewy evening fell,The quarry to their hut they drew. In grey Grlenfinlas deepest nook The solitary cabin stood,Fast by Moneiras sullen brook, Which murmurs through that lonely wood. Soft fell the night, the sky was calm,When three successive days had flown; And summer mist in dewy balm Steepd heathy bank, and mossy stone. The moon, half-hid in silvery flakes,Afar her dubious radiance shed, Quivering on Katrines distant lakes,And resting on Benledis head. Now in their hut, in social guise,Their silvan fare the Chiefs enjoy ; And pleasure laughs in Ronalds eyes,As m
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